


I Forgot How Nice Romance Is

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Series: The Longest Time [3]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Also so much fluff, Alternate Universe - Academia, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Gen, M/M, Profs AU.... 2!, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wedding Fic!!!!!!, and writing a BOOK, i continue to rant about classism and racism in academia, it’s awful, there are more fake academic papers but this time A BOOK, theyre getting married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 01:30:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20667083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: As two professors from wildly different backgrounds, we promise to make this book make sense to everyone. We promise to make it readable. And, above all, we promise to make it good.-intro toLow Literature,by Dr and Dr Smith al-TahanSomewhere in the University of Prague, two offices sit side by side: Dr Hamid al-Tahan and Dr Zolf Smith. The kicker?They’re getting married.





	I Forgot How Nice Romance Is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roswyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/gifts).

> hello kids. im back and as procrastinate-y as ever. enjoy !!
> 
> working title: _tell me why i keep doing this!!!!!!!!_

> _ Contextualising a life is integral to an empathetic reading of their current-day situation; the ability to extrapolate and analyze the results of inequity crucially affects the ability of educators to understand students. _
> 
> _ This is an inaccessible sentence. It means almost nothing, and after a good, close read, one might glean the main idea: inequality in education. The irony of modern-day academia is that, even when it tries to serve marginalized communities, overly-specific terminology keeps these very people out of the loop. As two professors from wildly different backgrounds, we promise to make this book make sense to everyone. We promise to make it readable. And, above all, we promise to make it good. _

_ \- _ intro to _ Low Literature, _by Dr and Dr Smith al-Tahan

* * *

“Let’s get married,” Hamid says casually, leaning forward to sip at his iced matcha. Zolf snorts, glances at him over the top of his computer, and raises a hand to show off his ring.

They’re sitting outside a cafe, working on the concluding chapters of _ Low Literature, _ having just been thoroughly scolded by their editor for being too academic after explicitly stating they wouldn’t be, _ Hamid. _The truth is that while jargon is bullshit, anyone who’s been studying English for long enough has the terminology tattooed behind their eyelids, and it’s hard to break the habit. It’s important, of course, but it takes so much time.

“Doing that in three months, Hamid,” Zolf reminds him gruffly, but the grin that tugs at his lips is a loving betrayal.

Hamid curls his golden manicured fingers around his drink — which, honestly, is taller than his head, and probably has enough caffeine to stop the heart of a small child. “No,” he says. “I mean let’s get _ married.” _

Zolf stops typing. “What, now?”

“Why not?” Hamid asks, shrugging, and he’s trying to be blase but the way he’s looking at Zolf is a betrayal that’s too, too fond.

Clearing his throat, Zolf raises a brow and says, _ “Right _now?”

“Right now,” Hamid agrees.

_ “Right now _right now,” Zolf repeats, like he’s still surprised Hamid wants to marry him.

“Well—” Hamid cocks his head, bites his lip thoughtfully. “I imagine there will be a lot of paperwork. But yes.”

Zolf shuts his laptop to put his hand over Hamid’s, and oh. It really is beautiful, isn’t it? The way the green stones of the engagement ring match his eyes? The way it sparkles like a signal flare, a meteor shower, a fireworks show? “You want to marry _ me,” _ he says, and above the needles of doubt is love, love, love, love, love. _ “Now.” _

“Yes,” says Hamid, beaming, like Zolf has just come to a conclusion Hamid has long since found obvious.

The corner of Zolf’s lips quirk up. “Are you doing this to get out of edits?” he asks, and Hamid takes a long, slow sip of his tea.

“No?”

Zolf snorts. “You’re lucky I love you,” he says, and the stars in Hamid’s eyes agree.

* * *

> “Breaking Barriers: A History Of What Makes Classics Classic,” by Zolf Smith, PhD, 2018.
> 
> “Who, What, When, Where, Write! An Analysis of Undergratuate Student Perceptions About Educational Elitism Over Time,” by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, 2018.
> 
> “Undiscovered Greats: Female, LGBT+, and Non-White Authors Have Been Here All Along,” by Zolf Smith, PhD, Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, and Oscar Wilde, PhD.

* * *

“This,” Zolf mutters under his breath, “is ridiculous.”

“There’s so much _ paperwork,” _Hamid whines, flinging down a Certificate of No Impediment to Marriage and crawling into Zolf’s lap. “I take it back.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“I’m breaking up with the government,” Hamid corrects, pushing papers off of Zolf’s thighs and settling himself on his fiance’s good leg. _ “Obviously _it doesn’t want us to get married.”

Zolf cards a hand through Hamid’s curls and Hamid can’t bring himself to care about the style being completely ruined. “What’ll we do about that, eh?” he asks, his voice low and soft, and Hamid tilts his face up to kiss Zolf’s jaw.

One of Zolf’s thumbs scrapes against Hamid’s cheek, the warm brown of his calloused farmer’s hands soft against stupid, silken aristocrat skin, and Hamid loses all ability to think for a few moments. ‘Windows-start-up-noises,’ Zolf calls it, making fun of the both of them. Hamid doesn’t care. He’s got forever to look into Zolf’s pretty eyes, married or otherwise.

“Darling, kiss me,” Hamid sighs, flinging his arms around Zolf’s neck and waiting for the answering call of lips on his forehead, brushing his nose, sweeping, soft and butterfly-like, down to his mouth.

“You’re an idiot,” says Zolf, the paperwork forgotten. He doesn’t mean it, but Hamid gets to enjoy the low rumble of laughter in Zolf’s chest against his cheek as he stretches his legs across the arm of the chair in their living room.

“Who, _ me?” _

“Mm,” Zolf says, temporarily distracted by the gleam of stars in Hamid’s eyes. “No, the other drama queen I’m in love with.”

Hamid pokes him in the cheek. “Rude.”

* * *

> INTERVIEWER: Good to have you both here! Sorry to have pulled you away from your Saturday, Dr Smith, Dr al-Tahan.
> 
> ZOLF SMITH: No worries, really.
> 
> HAMID AL-TAHAN: We’ve never done an interview for a book before! I’ll be honest, most people haven’t been too interested in promoting academic writing.
> 
> ZOLF [muttered]: Most people still aren’t.
> 
> HAMID: Zolf!
> 
> INTERVIEWER, laughing: Well, both of you _ are _correct in assuming that academia isn’t our usual cup of tea, but we’ve heard rumours that the two of you are doing big things with it.
> 
> ZOLF: More— the opposite?
> 
> HAMID: We’re trying to make an academic text that no one needs a degree to understand. Our field is all about analysis, and getting to the root of an idea… but then we share it in ways that no one but an elite can understand.
> 
> ZOLF: What we’re doing is taking pretentiously named concepts and bringing them back down to Earth.
> 
> INTERVIEWER: It’s nice to see the two of you working together after ten years of working— strenuously side by side, I’d say?
> 
> ZOLF: Someone’s done their homework, eh? Yes, it’s very nice.
> 
> HAMID: We’ve developed a very good… working relationship.
> 
> INTERVIEWER: Oh?
> 
> ZOLF [fondly]: Hamid, we’re engaged.
> 
> HAMID, sputtering: I - I was being coy!
> 
> ZOLF: _ Hamid. _
> 
> [laughter]

* * *

So they get married. They get married, officially, in Town Hall, without telling anyone, dumping crumpled paperwork onto a receptionist’s desk and asking, “Please?”

“My parents are going to kill me,” Hamid hums as he signs his name, but can’t bring himself to care. “Getting married without fifty people present, minimum, is practically a crime.”

“My brother’s going to make fun of me forever, but I already knew that,” Zolf replies as he tucks Hamid under his arm. “Somehow he’s been married for almost ten years now, has a kid, and he’s not even in a relationship.”

“He’s— what?” Hamid squeaks, as their paperwork is taken in the back to be processed. Zolf laughs the type of laugh that Hamid can feel vibrate across his body when he stands close enough.

“Brock Smith-Wilde? The anthropology major?” Zolf prods, and recognition flits over Hamid’s delicate features.

“Your brother’s married to _ Oscar Wilde?” _

“Sort of,” says Zolf.

Hamid squeaks, “I mean - I knew they were friends, but - how did I not —_ married?” _

Zolf only grins in return, his face lighting up in a way that wipes Hamid’s mind clean and through the fog he has the time to wonder how he’s never seen these dimples before.

So they get married, and Hamid leans up to kiss _ his husband, _and there’s no ceremony, no walls to be overcome, no one else in control, and no one watching. Hamid kisses his husband and it’s like floating on air, his palms cupping Zolf’s face, Zolf’s hands firm on the small of his back, on one of his hips, and touching him feels like safety, feels like coming home, feels like a memory, like something Hamid has always known how to do.

It’s short. Too short. Too short for what they want, for what they need, for what they deserve. But they have a lifetime to do it now, to kiss and laugh and bicker and talk about stupid revelations and family expectations and by the gods, how could Hamid ever have resented him? How could Hamid ever have done anything but love the man in front of him, and how can he ever be expected to do anything else?

* * *

> _Pride & Prejudice & Dr Hamid al-Tahan _ by DrWildeLit, a 15 minute YouTube video posted May 12th, 2019.
> 
> comment by **amsterdamn:** These are both my professors and I hate that they think they’re funny
> 
> comment by **brockisintheceiling: **that’s my dad
> 
> comment by **brockisintheceiling: **AND THE OTHER ONE IS MY PROFESSOR
> 
> comment by **amsterdamn: **Brock I am so sorry for you

* * *

Hamid is up late. He justifies it to himself by saying he’s working on the wedding plans, and he _ is, _ but he just can’t sleep. Stress-induced insomnia was the worst thing he picked up in grad school, and Hamid was the type of person to catch the flu religiously. This has stuck with him, though. Whenever something big is coming up, like a presentation or a lecture for his colleagues ( _ or your wedding, _a little voice hisses in the back of his mind), Hamid suddenly loses all ability to fall or stay asleep. And he’s run out of melatonin, which means he’s entirely at the whims of his unforgiving, nonexistent circadian rhythm.

He’s hunched over his laptop, looking through student essays defining and comparing Romance with romance on one tab and scrolling through possible gold-accent flowers on another. He’s not being that productive. He wishes he was, but he’s not. Hamid’s just tired, and stressed, and making things worse.

_ “F-fuck—” _

“Zolf?”

_ “Shit!” _ Zolf - Hamid’s _ husband - _hisses as he shoves the blanket off his body, trembling fully as he pushes himself into a sitting position. Here’s the thing about nightmares: they’re not loud, screaming things like they are in movies, or Zolf’s romance novels. The waking is a jolt into a clumsy, stumbling aftermath of a body that is remembering how to operate and a mind still half-hazy with images.

Zolf doesn’t really talk about the dreams, but Hamid knows it has something to do with the Navy, something to do with the service Zolf never asked to be a part of, something to do with the imperialism that cost him his leg. Zolf doesn’t really talk about the dreams, but Hamid doesn’t need to know.

Right now, Zolf is looking at him with confusion and — concern? That’s not fair — in those pretty green eyes of his, reflected in the glow of Hamid’s computer. “Why’re you up?” he says, his voice thick with sleep.

Hamid shuts the laptop. “Wasn’t tired, darling.”

“You should go to sleep,” Zolf says, before he’s even stopped shaking from the aftermath of the nightmare.

“Zolf.” Hamid gives him a glass of water and a pointed look. “This isn’t about me.” His voice softens, then, reaching out to take Zolf’s hand across the bed as he says, “I’m just worried, love. I—”

“I know,” Zolf replies, carding a hand through his hair and letting it fall aimlessly into his eyes. “I’m alright, Hamid.”

“And you know you can wake me up if you need anything?” Hamid presses, squeezing Zolf’s palm.

_ “Yes, _yes,” he says, impatient, but the smile that touches his lips tells Hamid that Zolf is grateful for the reminder. “Can’t quite wake you up if you’re not sleeping, though.”

Hamid’s own smile fades. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, get rest,” Zolf chides him, pulling Hamid closer. Hamid obliges without argument as one of Zolf’s arms comes to settle around his waist, the faint smell of sea and sandalwood lingering in Zolf’s beard. Hamid reaches down and takes his hand, twining their fingers together and pulling it to his chest, settling against his beating heart.

“I mean—” Hamid manages his first yawn all night, snuggling into Zolf’s chest. “This is fairly persuasive, yes.”

Zolf hums a deep, vibrating note and kisses the top of Hamid’s head, says, “Go to sleep.”

Hamid presses his lips to Zolf’s knuckles, like an old fashioned dandy. “I love you.”

“Sap,” says Zolf, fondly, then— “I love you too.”

* * *

> _The personal is political. To be a brown man in academia is political. To be a queer brown academic is radical. To be a bisexual, transgender brown African living in the world of colonised English thought is not only ‘extreme,’ but dangerous. These are intersections (defined as ‘the overlap of multiple oppressions based on a person’s identity’) which inform the worldview and perspective of one of this book’s authors, Dr Hamid Smith al-Tahan._
> 
> _ When considering that the other author, Dr Zolf Smith al-Tahan, is a disabled, queer man from a low income family, the importance of access in our writing becomes clearer. For Dr Smith and many others, the ability to afford an education has been murky at best. For Dr Smith, hard work had little to do with his educational opportunity— instead, opportunity came hand in hand with a delicate combination of luck, friends, and stubborn mentors. If even one of those things had been absent, this book would be non-existent. _

-intro to _ Low Literature, _by Dr and Dr Smith al-Tahan

* * *

“Gold and teal or bronze and navy?” Hamid asks, nestling his laptop in the crook of an arm as he pushes open the door to Zolf’s office. “It’s import— oh, hi, Brock.”

“Hi, Hamid,” Brock says, grinning through sharp teeth.

“Hi, Hamid,” Zolf says from behind a desk, sounding exhausted. “Brock, as long as you bring your thesis to me on Wednesday, you’re free to go. Alright?”

“Sure thing, Doc,” Brock agrees, scribbling something down in his planner before tucking it in his bag. Hamid briefly wonders why Brock’s _ literal uncle _is allowed more of a professional title than he is, but chases the thought away. (The reason is because Hamid is tiny and warm and has the bad habit of letting people call him by his first name the moment they’re behind closed doors.)

“Oh— tell your father,” Zolf says pointedly as Brock stands up, “that the next time he breaks into my office to take my pens when I’m not there, I will have words with him.”

“Terrifying,” says Brock. “Is that the English professor version of fistfighting?”

“I will drown him in a bucket,” Zolf threatens, then pauses. “Tell him that. He’ll know what I mean.”

Brock salutes, and pushes out of the office. “Aye aye, Captain.”

“I’ll see you later.” The door swings shut, and Zolf turns to Hamid with a soft smile. Hamid sets his laptop down on the desk, then leans over it to press their lips together, his hand cupping Zolf’s cheek. “Hi, you.”

“We need to talk about accent colours,” Hamid says between kisses, breathlessly. “It’s very important.”

“Mm?” Zolf rests their foreheads together, and Hamid takes the opportunity to kiss his nose. “I don’t even know what an accent colour is.”

“It’s a colour that compliments the primary colour of the decor,” Hamid explains, his eyes fluttering closed. “Saira and I narrowed it down to a blue and a metallic, but I don’t know which blue _ or _which metallic—”

“Bronze,” says Zolf, tucking a strand of hair behind Hamid’s ear. No hesitation. “But with a lighter blue than navy, eh? Won’t want to make the venue look— er. Sad?”

Hamid’s shoulders sag with relief, and a tear leaks down his cheek. “I love you,” he sniffles, and Zolf pulls back so he can kiss Hamid’s forehead.

“I love you too— look, is everything okay?” Zolf asks, shutting a desk drawer and meeting Hamid around the other side. Hamid, once given the opportunity, collapses into Zolf’s chest and smushes his cheek against his collarbone.

“I’m _ stressed, _Zolf,” Hamid says, in a tone reserved for the end of the world, or running out of pastries.

“We don’t have to have a big wedding,” Zolf says, carding a hand through Hamid’s hair. “Don’t need accent colours, or— well. Nothin’ like that. Considering we’re already married and all.”

“How _ dare _you,” Hamid replies, mock offended, but already he looks a bit less high strung.

This is the man he’s spending the rest of his life with. It’s gonna be okay. 

* * *

> “You’re my Uncle! Boogie woogie woggie,” by Brock Smith-Wilde, for This Is The Bad Place: Modern Ethical Literature, taught by Zolf Smith, PhD.
> 
> REVISED TITLE: “You’re My Uncle! Boogie Woogie Woogie,” by Brock Smith-Wilde, for This Is The Bad Place: Modern Ethical Literature, taught by Dr Zolf Smith.
> 
> REVISED TITLE: “My Father Will Be Hearing About This,” by Brock Smith-Wilde, for This Is The Bad Place: Modern Ethical Literature, taught by Dr Zolf Smith.
> 
> REVISED TITLE: “This Is A Serious Paper I Swear,” by Brock Smith-Wilde, for This Is The Bad Place: Modern Ethical Literature, taught by Dr Zolf Smith.
> 
> REVISED TITLE: “Poststructuralism is a Bitch But Here We Are,” by Brock Smith-Wilde, for This Is The Bad Place: Modern Ethical Literature, taught by Dr Zolf Smith.
> 
> REVISED TITLE: “Poststructuralism is a Mess But Here We Are,” by Brock Smith-Wilde, for This Is The Bad Place: Modern Ethical Literature, taught by Dr Zolf Smith. 

* * *

“Hamid, you— _ how _did you manage this?” Zolf asks, helping him into bed, and his voice is that familiar combination of exasperated and fond.

“I was working on wedding plans,” Hamid croaks, blinking blearily as he does as instructed. “It was important.”

“I can’t marry you if you’re _ dead,” _ Zolf says, sitting down on the side of the bed. “Hamid, you’ve got nearly a forty degree fever — Wilde says he found you passed out in the library? And if _ he’s _criticising your self care—”

“Zolf,” Hamid whines, burrowing into the pillows. “You can’t scold me, I’m ill.”

“That’s why I’m telling you to take care of yourself!” Zolf sets a glass of water next to the bed and folds his arms. Hamid honest-to-god pouts at him.

“I’m _ dying,” _ he says, his voice breaking as it jumps in pitch, “and you’re being _ rude _to me.”

“Oh, no,” Zolf says flatly, but he can’t help but crack a smile. “Will it make it better if I stay until you fall asleep?”

Hamid wrinkles his nose. “I’ll get you sick,” he points out, his voice awfully small, and suddenly the bed he’s lying in feel very large indeed.

Fun fact about Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan: his voice starts to squeak when he’s stressed, or angry, or on the verge of tears. Zolf knows this. He knows Hamid too well not to, pays too much attention to the patterns of his moods and wellbeing not to. He cares too much not to, and by the sound of Hamid’s voice alone, he’s almost entirely burnt out.

“I’ll be fine,” Zolf replies, climbing in beside Hamid and tucking the tiny man under his arm. Hamid’s eyes are big and dark and wholly trusting, and Zolf reaches over to brush hair off his forehead. It’s silly that even now, even here, Hamid still makes Zolf’s heart jump into his throat to make room for the butterflies in his stomach.

Zolf is pretty sure he always will.

(Of course, he spends the next week or so sick as anything, having caught whatever nightmare flu Hamid had, but it’s okay. He’s okay. They’re okay.)

* * *

> _ Traditional classic literature must be examined in context. The 1800s were racist, sexist, ableist, homophobic, and much more. The 1900s were still racist, sexist, ableist, homophobic, and much more. It is dangerous to believe in the inherent superiority of older literature without casting a critical eye on its content. Moreso, even when reading this literature critically, one must acknowledge that for many white male Europeans whose work has endured, the work of those oppressed and suppressed has been erased, credited to the names of the well-known. _

_ \- _ Excerpt from _ Low Literature, _by Dr and Dr Smith al-Tahan, 2019.

* * *

“Zolf,” says Hamid, a cautious sort of excitement in his voice, “what are you doing?”

Zolf pushes his glasses up and grins. “Your sister really knows her stuff, eh?” he says, letting his hands sit loosely in his pockets. “We thought you were overworking yourself, so I took it upon myself to find the venue.”

And find a venue he did: the place is _ beautiful. _ The outside of the mosque is simple, yet elegant, and the inside — _ oh. _It’s sprawling, with a high ceiling and gold trim, and Hamid’s breath catches in his throat as he takes in the stained glass windows and sweeping arches. A delicate cacophony of colour bursts into the room, riding on the coattails of soft evening light, and it casts Zolf’s face into gentle, dappled shadow.

Hamid, not for the first time today, bursts into tears.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Zolf says, jogging over to him and putting an arm around his shoulders. “You’re alright, Hamid, I’ve—”

“We’re going to get _ married,” _ Hamid sobs, joyous, and the sound echoes around the building, all love, all pride. “I’m going to get _ married _to you, Zolf—” Hamid’s voice cracks as he starts crying again, but Zolf gets the picture.

“I know,” he says, pressing a kiss to Hamid’s temple. “I love you, too.”

* * *

> 3:21 AM **Sasha: **heard ur getting married
> 
> 3:21 AM **Favourite Ex Professor: **Nice to hear from you at 3 am Sasha
> 
> 3:21 AM **Favourite Ex Professor: **Yes I’m getting married
> 
> 3:22 AM **Sasha: **this is where it is right
> 
> 3:22 AM **Sasha: **image.3_zolf_wedding
> 
> 3:22 AM **Favourite Ex Professor: **How the HELL did you find that
> 
> 3:23 AM **Sasha: **so that’s it
> 
> 3:23 AM **Sasha: **cool thx
> 
> 3:24 AM **Favourite Ex Professor: **Sasha can you please answer the question
> 
> 3:35 AM **Favourite Ex Professor: **Sasha
> 
> 9:45 AM **Favourite Ex Professor: **Sasha what the hell

* * *

“One or two?”

“One.”

“One or three?”

“One.”

“One or four?”

“...Hm.”

“Here’s one again.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And here’s four.”

“I think I’m going to stick with one.”

“That’s my favourite too,” says Saira, fixing her hijab as she closes the tab on —flowers? Plates? Napkins? Zolf genuinely has no idea at this point — and shuts her laptop.

“Great minds think alike,” Hamid says, grinning. “Which was your favourite, Zolf?”

Zolf has not been able to keep up with two Tahans wedding planning at the speed of light. “Three,” he says, just to be contrary. Saira’s brows shoot up.

“Really?” she asks, with a surprisingly little amount of judgement in her voice. Then Zolf remembers her job, and figures that she must be judging him a lot. Hamid starts giggling, and Saira casts him a sharp look. “I just want to know why!”

_ “Hamid,” _says Zolf, disapprovingly, which only makes him laugh harder. “Come on, now. You should know better.” Then, to Saira, “I had no idea what was going on.”

“Oh!” Saira blinks, her smooth professionalism uninterrupted. “For how long?”

“The... er. The whole time?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Saira says, flashing him a genuine smile and opening up her laptop again. For what it’s worth, Zolf really likes her; they’ve always gotten along. He appreciates her no-nonsense attitude and she likes the way he treats Hamid. “We can go over them again.”

_ “No,” _ whines Hamid, loudly, smacking Saira’s shoulder. _ “No, _you wouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t your future husband have a say in how the wedding goes?”

“He’s had many says!” Hamid folds his arms over his chest, honest-to-God pouts.

“I think I trust his judgement,” Zolf says with a grin, and Saira rolls her eyes.

* * *

> 1:30 AM google search: accent colour
> 
> 1:31 AM google search: how to pick an accent colour
> 
> 1:35 AM google search: can accent colours be primary colours
> 
> 1:42 AM google search: what the fuck IS colour theory

* * *

“Azu!” It’s been a while since Zolf’s seen this familiar face in the English department, and he waves her down as she walks in, holding a thermos and wearing a wedding ring.

“Hello, Zolf,” she says warmly, her cheeks red from the brisk air outside. “It’s nice to see you. And congratulations are in order, I should see.”

“Ah,” Zolf says, clearing his throat. “Well. Yes. I was— actually going to invite you to the wedding?”

“Oh!” Azu beams at him, fiddling with a pendant around her neck. It’s in the shape of an anatomically correct heart - actually, it might _ be _a real preserved heart - and Zolf is pretty sure it’s a gift from Sasha. “We’d love to come.”

It’s easy to smile back at Azu. Zolf grabs his cane and walks over to the coffee machine, nodding. “Well. That’s— thank you, Azu. We’ll be happy to see you and Sasha.”

“We’re excited to be back!” Azu agrees, appraising the machine with a nostalgic sort of disgust. “I know Sasha hasn’t visited Brock in a while, and she’s very interested in how he’s getting on.”

Zolf laughs. “He’s getting on, alright.”

“Do tell,” Azu replies, her eyes alight with the promise of gossip.

Tucking his papers beneath an arm, Zolf starts in the direction towards his office. “Walk with me?”

Azu catches up in two steps. “Of course.”

* * *

> 12:40 AM **Sasha: **heard we’re actually invited to the wedding now
> 
> 12:40 AM **Favourite Ex Professor: **Isn’t it funny how that works when you don’t stalk people??
> 
> 12:40 AM **Favourite Ex Professor: **Also Sasha do you EVER sleep
> 
> 12:41 AM **Sasha: **that’s for me to know and u to not know
> 
> 12:41 AM **Favourite Ex Professor: **I think it’s ‘find out’
> 
> 12:41 AM **Sasha: **nope
> 
> 12:42 AM **Favourite Ex Professor: **You should get some sleep
> 
> 12:42 AM **Sasha: **fuck you i do what i want
> 
> 12:44 AM **Sasha: **sorry zolf that was rude i didn’t mean it
> 
> 12:50 AM **Sasha: **can i still come to the wedding
> 
> 3:27 AM **Sasha: **zolf
> 
> 10:36 AM **Favourite Ex Professor: **Sasha I FELL ASLEEP

* * *

_“Haaaamid.”_

“Aziza, don’t you have work?” Hamid asks as his sister — a grown woman, mind, in her mid forties — drapes herself across his couch and kicks up her skirts, gracefully flinging the scarf of her hijab at his face.

Crossing her ankles on the arm of the couch, she shakes out her hair and stretches out to the best of her four-eleven ability. “I’m off until the wedding,” she says with a dainty shrug. “No shows in Prague for me this year.”

“Are you just going to hang out at our place until you find something better to do?” Hamid asks, clacking away on his computer as he rewrites a sentence in _ Low Literature _for the fifth time.

“What? No!” Aziza says, grinning. “I’m just here to deposit my suitcase. I’m going to the Smith-Wildes’ place to go spoil Brock.”

Hamid peers over his laptop. “Did you know they were married?”

“They’ve been married for ten years, Hamid,” Aziza says, rolling her eyes, and Hamid will take that as a yes, then. “Feryn did the sets for that show in 2006, remember? Someone set fire to the theatre?”

“Trust me, I remember,” Hamid peeps. Aziza talks about it casually now, but that performance put her in the hospital, and Hamid had raced over to Prague so quickly he’d probably broken a few laws. “Still can’t believe it was a _ Smith _brother who saved your life.”

“Are you still bitter about that?”

“I’m not _ bitter!” _

Aziza points an accusing finger at him. “You complained more about Zolf needing a ride than the fact that I _ almost died.” _

“I was very deep in denial!” Hamid says defensively, his voice squeaking. “And what were the chances that _ Feryn _was going to be the one helping you out?”

“We worked for the same company! That was the first thing you and Zolf figured out you had in common!” Aziza fires back, starting to laugh. “It’s not that big a stretch!”

Hamid huffs. “It was irritating.”

“You loved it,” Aziza cackles. “Hours alone with the man who would become your husband… United for the pursuit of a noble cause—”

“Shut _ up!” _Hamid squeals, but Aziza’s laughing too hard at this point to make fun of him anymore.

* * *

> _Where do we draw the line? And to where does the line extend? Look at Charles Dickens, or Herman Melville, authors of A Tale of Two Cities and Moby Dick, respectively. Their books are considered “classics,” yet their quality should be just as questionable and questioned as any modern novel. Dickens, paid by the word, wasn’t looking only to write literature. He was writing to survive, and did so admirably. Even Shakespeare’s plays, now so entrenched in high society and academia, were for entertainment, not analysis._

-Excerpt from Chapter Three of _ Low Literature, _by Dr and Dr Smith al-Tahan, 2019.

* * *

“Zolf, what the hell are you doing?” asks the most eccentric chemistry professor in the school, which makes Zolf figure that he looks like he’s truly lost it.

“...Trying to pick my best man?” he says, rolling the quarter between his thumb and forefinger. “Hamid already stole Azu, which makes things a bit easier, but I’m still between Feryn and Sasha and I can’t pick _ both--” _

Dr Celiquilithorn Sidebottom grins and holds out a hand. “I’ve got something that’ll help.”

“Is it explosive?”

“Very.”

“Please help.”

Cel grabs Zolf’s forearm and pulls him upright, leading him into their lab. Zolf stands awkwardly in the doorway as they uncork a dry erase marker, write ‘Feryn’ on one side of the whiteboard and ‘Sasha’ on the other, then pick up a test tube and shake it vigorously. “Close your eyes, spin around three times, and then go.”

“This seems like a bad idea,” says Zolf as the test tube starts fizzing.

“Oh, it is!” They spin him by the shoulder and Zolf, for whatever reason, closes his eyes to oblige. The good news: the test-tube-test works, firing off the cork of a stoppered tube (which is the opposite of lab safety, but you know) towards the whiteboard. The bad news: it goes straight _ through _ the whiteboard, leaving a little hole through the ‘e’ in Feryn, so that it almost looks like it says ‘Foryn.’

“Huh,” says Zolf, lowering it.

“Feryn it is!” Cel proclaims, grinning. They take the test tube and high five him with both hands. Zolf figures he’ll just… do what the test tube says.

“Cel,” he says slowly. “Do you want to come to my wedding?”

* * *

> _Let’s Make A Bomb! _by Celiquilithorn Sidebottom, PhD, 2012.
> 
> “Quantum Physics and the Implications Of Human Consciousness: How Electrons Might Prove You Really Are The Centre Of The Universe,” by Celiquilithorn Sidebottom, PhD, 2013.
> 
> “Take Me To Your Microscopic Leader: What Would Alien Life Look Like?” by Celiquilithorn Sidebottom, PhD, 2015.

* * *

Hamid climbs into bed with a cup of tea, which he doesn’t put on the nightstand, thank you, and almost sloshes it all over himself before Zolf reaches out and plucks it from his hand.

“I had that,” Hamid protests as Zolf gives it back, frowning.

Zolf chuckles. “Sure you did, Hamid.”

“Happy Friday,” Hamid mumbles in lieu of a direct reply as the clock flips to midnight, burrowing into Zolf’s side. “We get married tomorrow.”

“We’re already married,” Zolf says, squeezing Hamid’s shoulder, and he presses his face against Zolf’s chest, trying to get as close as possible. “You’re my husband— don’t start crying, Hamid—”

“I’m not crying!” Hamid says with a distinct sniffling, and Zolf holds him even tighter. “I just— I mean, this time we’re going to have a ceremony and everything, and my family will be there, and _ your _family will be there, and you’re going to get to see my suit, and I just love you so much, Zolf, really.”

Zolf kisses his forehead with so much tenderness that Hamid could melt, says, “I love you too, Hamid. You should get some rest.”

“God, we have to _ teach _ tomorrow,” Hamid moans, burrowing his face in Zolf’s collarbone. “That _ sucks.” _

“Hey.” Zolf tilts Hamid’s chin up, meets his eyes, and kisses him with more sweetness than Hamid thought possible to exist. He brushes an unruly curl from the centre of Hamid’s forehead and cups his face in a hand, his thumb ghosting over Hamid’s cheek. “Hey, you’re so beautiful, you know that?”

_ “Zolf—” _

“No, you’re—” Zolf clears his throat, presses a kiss to the tip of Hamid’s nose. “You’re so beautiful, Hamid, and I love you.”

Hamid, if the moment ever comes up again, absolutely did not start crying.

* * *

Hamid_wedding_USB

  * dinner orders.docx
  * money shmoney.docx
  * ah fuck I can’t believe you’ve done this.docx
  * flowers_1.img
  * flowers_2.img
  * flowers_3.jpeg
  * flowers_4.gif
  * flowers_FINAL.img
  * zolf_:).jpeg

* * *

“Ah— _ fuck,” _Zolf mutters irritably, to a class of rowdy first years who hadn’t heard a teacher swear before university and still aren’t used to it. “One second, I think I left the papers at home— did I hand this out last class?”

He pulls up an assignment description on a projector and a noise of confusion ripples through the class. “Fuck,” he says again, running a hand through his hair.

“Is everything okay, Dr Smith?” calls one of the braver students from the back of the room.

“What? Yes, it’s fine,” he says, leafing through a folder until he finds a certain paper, looks at it, sighs, and closes the folder. “I just printed out the dinner orders for the reception instead of your assignment, so consider yourself lucky.”

There’s a short, celebratory silence, and then a different student pipes up, “Wait, reception?”

Zolf shrugs. “Getting married tomorrow,” he says, switching tabs on the computer to return to the PowerPoint, and the whole class explodes into uproar.

* * *

> “Tropes, Conventions, and True Love: Giving YA Lit Weight,” by Zolf Smith, PhD, 2017.
> 
> “Are Bad Books Bad? The Value of Any and All Fiction,” by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, 2018.

* * *

Zolf didn’t think he would be nervous. Eager, sure, anticipatory, _ definitely, _but nervous? No. Not until he’s standing at the altar, his brother beside him, waiting for Hamid to walk down the aisle and marry him in front of everyone. His family. Hamid’s family. Azu, Sasha, Cel, Wilde— everyone who's worked their way into their lives over the past few years— they’re all here. Zolf hasn’t been this terrified in a place of worship since his bar mitzvah.

Then Hamid enters the room, and it all disappears.

He looks gorgeous. He’s always gorgeous, but right now, Zolf can’t _ breathe _ for how beautiful he is. Hamid’s wearing a cream suit with a wine red waistcoat under a layer of pale lace, his brown skin glowing under the natural light of the mosque. Hamid’s curls are carefully arranged into the tightest ‘fro Zolf has ever seen, his eyes decorated with sharp, dark eyeliner and eyeshadow that turns his lids brassy. His lips are molten gold and Zolf can’t help but stare at him, can’t take his eyes off of his _ husband, _glittering in the daylight like a thousand precious metals.

Zolf starts believing in soulmates when Hamid smiles at him and, by all accounts, neither of them had ever looked so happy.

By some miracle, Hamid makes it down the aisle, and when their fingers touch, it feels like the first time they’ve ever held hands. Zolf smooths down his shirt - the palest, barely there seafoam blue; the jacket a navy patterned by winking night stars - and realises how badly his hands are trembling. Hamid squeezes their palms together for a single brief moment, beaming up at Zolf, and it is the warmth of the sun on a perfect spring day.

Sasha clears her throat from behind them — she’s somehow certified to officiate weddings and Zolf didn’t ask — and, very charismatically, says, “Alright, then. Vows?”

Hamid clears his throat, pats his chest pocket, and takes a deep breath in preparation. “Zolf,” he says, squeezing his hands. “Zolf, you— you’re the love of my life. I— I started writing this down with a lot of different beginnings, but this was the only one that mattered.” Hamid looks up to meet Zolf’s eyes, pressing Zolf’s hands between his.

“I met you almost fifteen years ago,” Hamid goes on, “and I fell in love with you five years after that, even though I was too stubborn to admit it to myself. You’ve been my rock since before I knew how to speak up for myself, and even— even when I was an absolute prick, you’ve never given up on me. I don’t care how long it took for us to finally — finally _ acknowledge _this, because I’m here now, with you, and there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be.”

Hamid closes his eyes and lets the world drop from around him. “My heart beats to love you,” he whispers, and it’s for Zolf and Zolf alone. “I don’t know much about fate, but I know that there is no world where I don’t adore you.”

“God,” Zolf says under his breath, “I have no idea how I’m going to follow that.” Hamid hitched a watery giggle and Zolf has to expend an incredible amount of energy not to kiss him then and there.

“Look, I— I don’t have your way with words,” he begins with a wry smile, “but I’ll— I’ll try.” Zolf clears his throat. “I am inordinately fond of you, Hamid al-Tahan. Even when you’re— bein’ a prick. I’ve never made a better decision in my life than to spend the rest of it with you.”

“I’m in love with you,” Zolf says simply. “Have been for a while. Will be for the rest of my life. I love you.”

Tears are streaming down Hamid’s face when he says, “I love you too, Zolf, I—” And then he tries to say something that might be ‘lawfully wedded’ but sounds more like ‘waffle-y’ and then Zolf’s hands are cupped around his cheeks, pressing their foreheads together, giggling. “I love you.”

“Hamid,” says Sasha, as they pull apart, “do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

And Hamid says, “I do.”

“Zolf,” Sasha continues, turning, “do _ you _ take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

And Zolf says, “I do,” and his voice breaks around the words, and Hamid is so glad he used waterproof eyeliner.

Sasha, whose vows were _ literally in code, _says, “Holy shit, kiss already.”

And they do.

They do.

And everything is good.

**Author's Note:**

> aaas always I can be found at ucbamba on twitter, at thoughtsbubble on tumblr, and at my school, crying. comments and kudos are, of course, so deeply appreciated. thanks for reading!!


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